


If You Like It

by ll_again



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A really bad one, Baby Pictures, Daddy Holmes is staying the heck out of it, F/M, Jealous Sherlock, Marriage Proposal, Mostly silly, Mummy is the smartest Holmes, Purple Shirt of Sex, as if there was any doubt, because is Sherlock capable of anything else?, musical theatre that does not involve murders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:58:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: ...then put a ring on it. Mummy Holmes knows what's up.Molly and Sherlock's parents form a friendship, much to Sherlock's chagrin. Mummy challenges her stubborn son to do something about it, in the tenor of Beyoncé's very sound philosophy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, Gatiss and Moffat's rendition is property of the BBC. This work is for fun and not profit.
> 
> I'm a bit obsessed with this ship at the moment. Molly is a bit sassy in this one to be totally in character, but it amused me so I just went with it. Not betaed or Brit-picked, cause I am lazy. Comments are always lovely.

It started innocuously enough. Convenient, even, for Sherlock, who for once had lost the toss with Mycroft over which of them was going to accompany their parents to the latest musical.

"You're off early," Molly chirped when Sherlock began to reluctantly gather his things. John started laughing so hard he couldn't speak, leaving Sherlock to explain that he was meeting his parents for dinner and something called Avenue Q, which apparently didn't involve any murders. "Oh!" Molly said, eyes sparkling, paying no attention to Sherlock's grumbling. "I've heard good things about it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes shrewdly, and within five minutes he'd negotiated Molly into a seat at their dinner table and handed over his ticket to the show. John had his 'Not Good, Sherlock' face on, but the consulting detective neatly managed to ignore it.

Molly bounced into the lab the next day, gushing about how sweet Sherlock's parents were and how much fun she'd had at the show, and that was that.

Or so Sherlock thought.

…

Sherlock and his parents had a strict understanding. Visits were to be separated by a period of at least three months. So he was understandably (by Sherlock-logic) irritated to discover that his parents had invaded Baker Street only a few weeks after they had taken Molly to the theatre in Sherlock's place.

"Don't fuss," Mummy said, holding up a hand as soon as Sherlock stepped into the room. "We're not here long. Dr Hooper invited us up."

"Molly Hooper invited you to my flat?"

"No, of course not," Mummy said patiently. "We're meeting her here; she's running a bit late. I assumed you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock sighed. "Of course not, Mummy," he said obediently. Then, his brow furrowed. "You're going out with my pathologist? Where?"

"We enjoyed her company so much the other night-"

"Very sweet girl," Sherlock's father said in agreement.

"-and Dr Hooper offered to take us to the Pathology Museum over at Barts as a thank you for inviting her to the play." Violet Holmes sat back smugly, watching her youngest son's expressive face as he processed what she had and hadn't said.

Molly arrived just then. She let herself in with the key that she'd finagled from Sherlock ages ago so she could come in and steal back whatever he had pilfered from the lab at Barts, and bounded up the stairs, stopping abruptly as she saw Sherlock, having not expected him to be there.

Recovering quickly, she flashed one of her patented thousand-watt smiles at Mr and Mrs Holmes. "Hi. Sorry I'm late."

"Going to the Path Museum, are you?" Sherlock asked snidely, unable to help himself.

Molly tugged nervously on her ponytail. "Um, yes? Well, your mum and dad said they'd like to go."

"The museum that's not open to the public except for events?"

"Er, well, Carla, the curator, is a friend of a friend, so she let me borrow the key..." Molly trailed off, sensing that Sherlock wasn't interested in how she had gained access. "Um, do you ... want to go with us?"

"Nonsense, dear," Violet said, standing up with her husband and giving Sherlock The Look. "You have a specific arrangement with your friend. We don't want to impose on that."

"Oh, no," Molly shakes her head quickly, eager to dispel any awkwardness. "I'm sure it won't be a problem. I mean, if Sherlock really wants to come..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking from his pathologist to his parents. Mummy was watching him with an expectant stare, and he cleared his throat. "Err, thank you, Molly, for the invitation. I'd love to come."

Violet pursed her lips, looking him up and down. "Change your shirt, dear." As he passed her on the way to do as bid, she added in a whisper, "Wear that purple one."

The museum trip was a resounding success; primarily because Sherlock was sufficiently entertained by Barts' collection of body parts, most of which had been obtained during an era when convicted murders were sentenced to be hung and anatomised. But things could only go downhill from there.

...

Molly's phone dinged; not the text signal, but an email. For a second, Molly ignored it, intent on the slides she was preparing. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she grabbed the phone off the desk and unlocked it.

A second later, she squeaked in glee. A few seconds after that, she made a noise that was halfway between a snort and a choked off laugh and set the phone onto the table, screen down. Her free hand slapped over her mouth to hold back her chuckles, and her eyes sparkled merrily.

"Good news?" John asked her with a smile.

"Just something Mrs Holmes sent me," Molly said. "We were talking about it earlier."

Although Sherlock was attempting to ignore Molly's antics (a task he found increasingly difficult of late), the mention of his mother was something he couldn't let pass. Lifting his head from his own microscope, he said, "Why is Mummy talking to you?"

"Sherlock!" John snapped.

"And interrupting your work, Molly," Sherlock continued, sending a mutinous glance in John's direction. "You are far too polite, and it's entirely unwarranted in this case."

Molly pinned him with a flat stare and said, "It doesn't cost me anything to be polite to your parents, Sherlock." She picked up her phone and started tapping at it. "Anyway, I like talking to them."

"What did Mrs Holmes send you?" John asked.

Sherlock's mind whirled at breakneck speeds. "A picture," he said in slowly dawning horror before Molly had a chance to reply. "A text only email would have downloaded instantly. A video would have taken slightly longer to load."

"Mrs Holmes found the baby books this morning," Molly said with a grin.

The lab was still for a second, as the occupants processed Molly's words and their immediate consequences. Then, like a nuclear explosion, they went off, all three of them jumping into action at once. Molly caught John's eye and slid her phone across a bare stretch of the wide lab table towards him. John caught the phone deftly and danced away, tapping at the screen to open up the photo that Molly had just downloaded. Sherlock lunged, fully prepared to scramble over the tabletop after the phone, but was bodily blocked by the petite pathologist.

"Don't you dare damage my phone, Sherlock Holmes," she squealed, holding him back purely through a force of will (and Sherlock's cooperation), rather than physical strength. "Or my lab!"

Meanwhile, John had managed to open up the attachment Mrs Holmes had sent Molly. "Oh my God," he gasped through a burst of laughter. "Is that Mycroft?"

Molly, still clinging to Sherlock's arm, dissolved into giggles. "Isn't he adorable?"

John turned the phone screen so Sherlock could see. A nearly spherical Mycroft, about three years old, stared at the camera, as stiff and formal as the adult version. He was also wearing nothing but a pair of training pants.

Sherlock goggled for a moment in pure glee; this was a photo that he'd never seen, likely because Mycroft himself had buried it somewhere where it was least likely to be found by his snooping younger brother. "You do realize, Molly," he said, "that if Mycroft discovers you are in possession of this, he will destroy not only your phone, but every hard drive it might have even touched, including your personal and work computers and any server that your email provider uses."

Molly grinned up at him, still hanging off his arm, although it was unnecessary, strictly speaking, to continue to hold him back. "So, I should send you a copy? For safe keeping?"

Sherlock gave her quite the wolfish smile in return.

Sometime later, Sherlock had plunged back into his current experiment, and John decided that it was time for him to head out, a decision supported by Sherlock's lack of response when he voiced it. John had to pass Molly's office on the way to the elevator, and caught a fragment of a conversation as he did.

"Yes, I got the pictures, Mrs Holmes," Molly was saying. (Pictures? John mouthed to himself.) "Fine, Violet. That pirate one was just precious." Molly's voice lowered to a register that John couldn't hear from his position, hovering outside her door.

But a few seconds later, she clearly signed off, and John stepped over the threshold into her office. "You have more pictures," he accused. "Pictures of Sherlock."

Mousy Molly didn't look the slightest bit guilty. "Of course. You think Mrs Holmes was going to go through her baby books for pictures of _Mycroft_ to send to me?"

"The Mycroft photo was a decoy," John said, "to distract Sherlock so he wouldn't go looking to see if you got any others."

"Mrs Holmes' idea." Molly fiddled with her phone, chewing on her lip, eyes gleaming. "Want to see the ones of Sherlock?"

"Oh, God, yes," John replied.

…

It took another two weeks before Mycroft cottoned on. When Sherlock saw the notification on his phone 'New text from Lard Arse', he smirked.

_Why is Mummy calling Dr Hooper?_

_Obviously they have_ _something_ _to talk about_ , Sherlock typed back.

_Every day?_

That was news to Sherlock, although not a surprise, given the number of times he had come into lab while Molly was on the phone with one or the other of his parents.

_Monitoring Mummy's calls? You know how she feels about that._

_I don't dictate the security requirements._

_Liar._

_And you clearly lied about your recent theatre trip. Don't think for a second that you're getting out of the next one_.

Sherlock snorted to himself. _Careful. Or I might let_ _the terms of your_ _'security requirements' slip to Molly_. It was a very indirect way to threaten to tell Mummy, but Mycroft being Mycroft, it was certain to work.

 _Piss off, little brother_.

...

This was the absolute last straw. Mummy was now invading his boltholes. His favorite bolthole, no less, so abandoning it was not an option. Technically, yes, it was Molly's apartment, and technically, of course she had every right to invite whomever she wanted into her home. But really, Sherlock didn't think it was unreasonable to want to keep his mother out of his safe hiding places.

"Mummy," Sherlock said as he stepped through the door, drawing the attention of the pair on the couch. "Molly."

"Hello, darling," Violet Holmes said. "Fancy seeing you here."

Sherlock huffed, ignoring her apparent disapproval that he'd picked the lock without knocking first. "What are you doing here?"

"Molly and I were just doing a little shopping," his mother replied. That much was obvious from the bags strewn about Molly's little living room, and, of course, Mummy realized that Sherlock's question was seeking a deeper answer than that. Voicing the blindingly obvious only meant that she was pointedly refusing to give Sherlock the answer he really wanted. Violet turned back to Molly, dismissing her son's irritation altogether. "I should be off, dear, if I'm to catch the train. It's been a lovely day."

Molly stood along with Violet and reached out to give her a hug without any hesitation, as if this was now a common occurrence. Sherlock scowled while Molly thanked his mother profusely for coming down to London to go shopping with her. The expression deepened when Molly and Violet kissed each other on the cheek. It was nothing more than a standard farewell between friends, but that didn't mean that Sherlock had to like it.

"Do let us know about visiting," Mummy was saying. "Siger so wants to show you the garden. The weather is supposed to be lovely this weekend, although of course you're welcome any time."

Molly chewed her lip, but her body language overall indicated that she was eager to accept the invitation. "I'm on call all this month," she said, explaining her reluctance. "But I'll see if I can switch with someone. I'll let you know either way."

Violet made a purely maternal noise of disapproval. "You are on call far too much, Molly, dear," she said with a concerned frown. "There are other people in your department who can't be pulling their own weight. Sherlock, tell her."

Sherlock, who was of the opinion that any time Molly _wasn't_ on call the general IQ of the Pathology Department plummeted, took one look at his mother and amended his next words. "Molly is very generous with her time," he said neutrally. Judging by the way Mummy narrowed her eyes at him, she wasn't fooled the slightest bit.

"I don't mind, really," Molly protested. "Everyone else has families, so it's nice for them to be able to have their weekends free."

Violet 'hmphed' loudly, which was more than enough to express what she thought about that. Sherlock, on the other hand, raked his eyes over Molly thoughtfully. He'd known for some time that Molly's father was dead, but this comment – a variant of which he'd heard before, now that he thought about it – made him consider the idea that Molly's mother was likewise absent from her life. That Molly Hooper was all alone in the world wasn't an idea that Sherlock liked, although even if pressed, he wouldn't have been able to explain why.

"Bye now, dear," Violet was saying, hugging Molly once more before gathering her things.

She gave Sherlock a very pointed look. "I'll see you out, Mummy," he said in response.

They had to walk to the end of the block to get to a street where Sherlock could hail a cab. Sherlock tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat and would have made the trip in silence.

But his mother, it seemed, was feeling chatty. "Molly's such a lovely young woman, Sherlock," she said. "I'm disappointed it's taken you so long to introduce us." Sherlock made a noise that was almost like responding. Mummy Holmes was far too dignified to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't let his reticence put her off. "I do love you boys, but it's so nice to have a girl about, finally."

They had reached the main road. Sherlock flung out an arm, then turned to his mother as the cab approached. "Molly Hooper isn't your surrogate daughter, Mummy," he said in a tone that would have earned him a sound thrashing as a boy. "She's _my_ pathologist. Do try and remember that."

Violet Holmes merely lifted an eyebrow, saying without words, 'You can't intimidate me; I changed your nappies.' She reached over and tugged her son into a quick hug. "Well, darling," she said, "I think you know what to do about that." Then she stepped back to let Sherlock open the cab door for her.

On his way back to Molly's flat, Sherlock fished out the square, velvet box that Mummy had slipped into his pocket during their goodbye. Flicking it open, he huffed. Grandmother's ring, of course. And knowing Mummy, already resized to fit Molly Hooper's dainty finger.

…

Molly was sifting through her purchases when Sherlock returned. "Help yourself to tea," she said pleasantly without looking up as he entered. "You know where everything is."

This was nothing less, and nothing more, than their usual arrangement. But today the usual was out the window, Sherlock realized as he fisted a hand around the velvet box in his coat pocket. He opened the box without taking it out and managed to snag the ring from the box with his forefinger. The ring was slipped into his trouser pocket as he shrugged out of his Belstaff, hanging it on the hook by the front door.

He stepped through the entryway into the living room proper, stopping at the back of the couch to peer over at the things Molly was sorting through on the coffee table. It appeared that Mummy had been unable to restrain herself at the shops. It was clear from the labels on the bags that these were shops that Molly herself wouldn't consider patronizing; she was far too sensible (miserly, Sherlock would say) to spend that kind of money on clothes.

Although he would have faked a second return of Moriarty to get out of going shopping with the pair, Sherlock did have a slight regret for missing the battle that must have ensued between Molly and his mother over who ultimately paid for the items now sitting on Molly's table. Molly had a backbone of steel when properly motivated, but Mummy had raised three genius Holmes boys _and_ managed to keep them all in line, more or less. She was not to be messed with when her mind was set on something.

"Was there anything left in the shops?" Sherlock asked, goggling at the sheer amount of things that Molly was pulling out of the bags.

Molly was properly abashed … for a moment. The days of a Molly Hooper who fell over herself to appease Sherlock Holmes were long gone; helping someone fake their death, it turned out, did wonders for creating equality in a relationship. "I needed some new things," she said defensively. "My old clothes are fine for the lab, but I have that conference coming up."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said. As Molly had spent the last month reminding him at every opportunity. Reminders that had been accompanied with a increasingly inventive threats should he not behave himself at Barts while she was gone.

"You will be nice to the interns, Sherlock," Molly ordered, right on cue. "Or so help me, I will hide all the bodies where even you can't find them."

Sherlock dropped into the armchair he'd claimed as his when he hid out at Molly's. "Hm," he said, pressing his hands together under his chin and looking at his pathologist with glittering gray eyes. "I'd like to see you try."

Molly only smirked as she held up one of her new blouses to her chest rather than rise to his bait. Sherlock caught himself admiring it as he envisioned the way it would look when Molly wore it – Mummy had excellent sartorial tastes, after all; just one more thing she'd passed on to her sons – and flicked his gaze away before Molly noticed him staring.

Away, however, meant alighting his eyes on the numerous bags piled up next to the couch. "So Mummy had to buy you a whole new wardrobe?" he said, wincing internally as even he recognized his tone to be petulant. "You're only going to be gone five days."

"Your mother didn't buy these clothes," Molly said, giving him a weird look. Sherlock was absurdly pleased – and proud – that Molly had actually won that argument, until her next statement registered. "And I'm actually gone for ten days – don't look at me like that, Sherlock. I did tell you."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "The conference is only five days."

His mood didn't improve when Molly lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if pleading for patience. "I decided to stay an extra few days. Make a proper holiday of it. Five days for the conference, three days extra, and two for travel. Well, I guess you could say that it's more like nine days away, since the travel is only half a day each way."

Molly trailed off when Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and slumped back into his chair, settling into a full on pout. She sighed audibly as she neatly folded up the blouse in her hands, setting it on the coffee table when she was done.

"Sherlock," she said, not lifting her eyes from her new blouse. "I am sorry if it upsets you that your mother and I are friends."

"Where's your mother?" he asked. It was annoying to have to ask, annoying that sometimes he didn't have the necessary data to deduce the answers he wanted. Unfortunately, Sherlock's irritation at that was reflected in his voice, although he didn't notice.

Molly did. But she was no Sherlock Holmes, and she misinterpreted his annoyance. "Sherlock..." She sighed again. "I like your parents; there's no getting around that. And I am sorry if that bothers you, but I'm not-"

Sherlock, still stuck on the Mystery of Molly's Mum, heedlessly interrupted, "She's not dead. You'd say if that was the case."

Molly knew perfectly well that Sherlock was like a dog with a particularly juicy bone when he decided he needed the answer to something. Giving in to the inevitable, she decided to answer the question so they could move on. "No," Molly said, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "She's not dead. My mother left us when I was twelve."

"Why?" The John Watson that lived in Sherlock's mind palace unearthed an air-raid siren and set it to wailing, finally catching Sherlock's attention as he'd been trying to do since this topic of conversation had started. _This is Not Good, Sherlock_ , John Watson yelled over the shrill klaxon. "I mean," Sherlock stuttered, quickly trying to backtrack, "why would she want to leave you? Why would anyone want to leave you?"

Sherlock winced at the clumsy attempt. Mind Palace John went to bash his head against a wall. But Molly, miraculously, ventured a smile. It was a weak one, but genuine for that, and as it was directed at him, Sherlock figured he hadn't buggered up as badly as he'd first thought.

"I don't know," Molly said, the sad smile still playing about her face. "Mum, she wanted something different with her life. Dad and I must've been in the way of that, I guess. I haven't seen her since she left, so I couldn't ask even if I wanted to." Sherlock literally bit his tongue to keep from asking the question on his lips, but Molly saw the question and answered it anyway. "Sherlock, having the answer doesn't always fix things. I've never tried to find Mum because there's nothing I can get from her that will change anything."

For a moment, Sherlock sat and stared at Molly, marveling – not for the first time – at the solid core of strength hidden within her. She shifted in her seat on the couch, unnerved by his gaze, which snapped him out of his contemplations. Without a word, he rose and, rather than kicking them out of the way, carefully relocated the pile of shopping bags so he could sit down next to her.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said finally, uncommonly serious. Sherlock angled his body so that he was facing her, and Molly, ever accommodating, followed suit.

"It's okay," she said automatically.

Sherlock frowned. "No, it isn't." He reached over and brushed a lock of hair off her face without any real mind to his actions. "Family is important to you. I didn't realize why until now."

Molly colored at his touch. "Sherlock, I'm not trying to usurp your place with your parents. You do understand that, don't you?"

The detective blinked, drawn out of his musings by her unexpected comment. "Is that what you think?" he said, eyes glinting with amusement. "That I'm worried you'll steal my parents? Molly, you'd be welcome to them, although I can't imagine why you-" Molly glared, and Sherlock stopped there with a cough.

Molly fiddled absently, twiddling her fingers together. "It's just that you seemed jealous."

Sherlock's hand strayed to his trouser pocket, fingering the small circlet of metal lying there. Mummy's words echoed back at him; _you know what to do_. "I was jealous," he said, knowing he sounded petulant but not able to prevent it. "But it's not you that's making me jealous. It's my parents. I'm not worried about you stealing them from me, Molly. I'm worried about _them_ stealing _you_." He fished the ring out of his pocket and held it up.

Although Sherlock was used to seeing Molly turn any number of colors, he'd never actually literally seen the blood drain out of her face before. "Sherlock, what the fuck is that?" she said in a harsh whisper.

He furrowed his brow, looking at the ring as if it could tell him what was so distressing. "It was my Grandmother's," he said.

"Put it away."

Sherlock took in the way her thin lips were pressed together into a barely visible line, her previously noted pale complexion, and the white-knuckled hands in her lap, and deduced that Molly was upset. ("No shit, Sherlock," Mind Palace John sneered. "Now fix it.") "Molly," he sighed, "will you let me finish?"

"No!" she said loudly in an uncharacteristic outburst, jumping up from the couch and pacing away from him.

This was bad. Sherlock didn't want Molly further away from him. In fact, as he'd been trying to explain, he wanted quite the opposite.

Molly stopped by the TV and fisted her hands in her hair, all but tearing it out of the twist holding it together. "Sherlock," she said through gritted teeth. "We are not dating. You don't propose to someone you aren't dating."

Sherlock tilted his head back, resting it against the back of the couch and staring at Molly's blank and boring ceiling. "I'm trying to get to that," he said.

"Is this for a case?"

Her voice hitched when she asked the question. In an instant, Sherlock snapped straight up and was on his feet. He started towards her, but she stopped him with a single shake of her head. "This isn't for a case, Molly," he said. "Please come here and let me explain." When Molly hesitated, he repeated, " _Please_."

Sherlock had only ever begged like this before when he was trying to get drugs from an unsympathetic medical professional. In a way, this felt very similar to the painful process of withdrawal. Yet this was worse, because it wasn't his pain he was desperate to sate, it was Molly's as well.

After what seemed like an age, Molly nodded and returned to her seat on the couch. She huddled against the arm, as far away as she could get in this seating arrangement, but for now, Sherlock let her as he sat back down as well.

"This isn't for a case," he said again, holding up the ring. "I mean it as a statement of intent."

"That's, um, very Victorian of you," Molly said, giggling a bit nervously. "Most people start with coffee though."

Sherlock shook his head, a bit more relaxed at Molly's improved mood. "I don't want to date you, Molly," he said. "I want more than that. You can have my parents if you must – you will anyway, whatever the case – but I want," Sherlock had to stop and take a breath, "I want to be your family, Molly Hooper." She drew in a sharp breath at the pronouncement. "Not some boyfriend with whom you'll always wonder if he'll get bored."

Molly snorted. "Well, Sherlock Holmes, you have been known to have some wild flings, if the tabloids are to be believed."

Sherlock's mouth quirked in a small smile, but he remained focused. "Family is permanent. I can wait, if you need time to decide. But I already know that this is what I want."

Tentatively, Sherlock stretched out his hand, palm up, and waited.

Molly made him wait, chewing on her lip as she mulled over his declaration. "An engagement?" she said finally, flicking her eyes to the ring in Sherlock's other hand. "A proper Victorian one?"

"Hm," he said. "A long engagement seems the thing, so you can decide if you'll have me." Molly chuckled, and Sherlock ducked his head, speaking with a rare hesitance to his words, "The day I met you, Molly Hooper, I thought that I knew everything worth knowing about you within the first five minutes.

"But I was very wrong. You always surprise me, and that's how I know that I- that I-"

Molly slid her hand into his outstretched palm – her left hand. Sherlock looked up into a radiant smile. "Me too," she said and allowed Sherlock slip the ring onto her finger.

She had to take a minute to admire the antique ring, and Sherlock sat back to let her. When his admittedly microscopic store of patience ran out, he asked, "Molly? How do I help you to decide you will have me?"

"You should kiss me," she replied promptly.

Sherlock, not being stupid, took her advice.

Some while later, Molly said against his mouth, "Just so we're clear, I'm not wearing that hat during sex."

"Just so we're clear," Sherlock shot back between languid kisses, "if you tried, I would kick you out of our bed."

…

Ten Months Later

Molly frowned down at the text conversation she was reading on Sherlock's phone. It had beeped while she was passing, so she had only meant to take a quick look to see if it was something important. Now she was trying to figure out what was more exasperating: the fact that Sherlock had stored Mycroft's number in his phone under the heading '00-Fatty', or the message he had apparently sent his brother, the reply to which had been what caught her attention.

_Molly and I are leaving for our Sex Holiday, so don't contact me until we get back._

_I would remind you to stay out of trouble, but it's apparent that you won't be leaving your rooms for the duration of your stay._

"Mycroft wishes us a nice trip," Molly said to Sherlock, who had come into the kitchen from their bedroom. She had long since learned to translate the banter between the pair of brothers.

Sherlock scowled as he was forced to sidestep a pile of wrapped gifts. Reaching Molly's side, he slipped one arm around her waist, pulling her close. The other hand relieved her of his phone and he hooked his chin over her shoulder to read the text, huffing lightly when he did, and typing a response one-handed.

_Careful Mycroft. That sounds like a challenge. Molly and I can get up to plenty of trouble without leaving the room._

"Sherlock!" Molly's scold was ruined by her laughter. Sherlock pressed a kiss to her neck. She hummed in appreciation. "Should we open some of these gifts, do you think?" she asked, looking around in a renewed dismay at the multiple piles of boxes that filled the little living room at 221B.

"No time," Sherlock said, still engrossed in kissing her neck. "The cab's due in an hour." He lifted his head suddenly. "Don't touch any of those," he reminded her for at least the third time, pointing at the larger piles where they'd put the gifts from Sherlock's fans. "Lestrade has someone coming round tomorrow to take them to be x-rayed."

Molly leaned back into him and rolled her eyes where he couldn't see. "Yes, dear. But the others... I thought I could get started on the thank you notes while we're away. We've enough time to unwrap the ones from our friends and jot down what they got us."

Sherlock tucked her more firmly against him, now wrapping both arms around her waist. "No need," he said. "I already know what's in all of them."

"Liar," Molly said in a lilting sing-song.

"Hm," he said, smiling against her temple. "Fine. I know what's in most of them. An assortment of small appliances that we don't need and will have to return – no less than three toasters, if you can believe that. Mike Stamford got us a set of lab equipment: pyrex glassware and a hotplate."

Molly giggled. "Only because you've been nicking his. Don't deny it."

"Well, we'll keep Mike's gift, and I won't have to anymore," Sherlock said magnanimously. "The ones from Scotland Yard are checks stuffed into gag gifts – you know what puerile humor they have down there. And John and Mary..." Sherlock sighed, breath puffing over the shell of Molly's ear. "Got us one of those hats."

"Oh, dear," Molly whispered.

"In your size."

Molly covered her face in her hands. "Oh my God."

Sherlock's voice dropped to a low timbre as he murmured into her ear. "We should take that one with us," he said.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"And burn it."

On cue, the pair burst into laughter. Molly wiggled around inside the circle of Sherlock's arms until they were face to face. "Remind me again," Sherlock said, looking down at her with eyes glinting green in the low light. "What was the point of putting 'no gifts' on the wedding announcements?"

"Yeah, that never works," Molly admitted, toying with his shirt collar. "Be nice," she ordered when Sherlock opened his mouth. "They just want to share in our celebration. Gift giving is the common way to do that."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling as if it could give him the answers he wanted, a habit he'd picked up from Molly some time ago. "You mean they are celebrating the fact that I've gone and saddled myself with a wife who will keep some of my more irritating eccentricities contained."

"Mr Holmes," she said sternly, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll do no such thing."

"Is that right, Dr Hooper?" For someone with very Victorian ideas about the purpose of engagements, Sherlock had been the first to agree with Molly's desire to keep her name, which she was published under, and he had been the one to argue the rationality with the few people who had questioned the decision.

Instead of letting her answer, Sherlock dipped his head and kissed her soundly. Molly twined her arms around his neck as she angled her head and nipped at his lower lip. Sherlock virtually purred in response and skimmed his fingers under the edge of her blouse, one of the few that Molly had allowed Violet Holmes to pay for, despite Mummy's continual attempts to buy Molly things.

"Sherlock," Molly protested, but given that she actually pressed closer instead of pulling away, it was a bit of a weak one. "There isn't time."

"We have fifty-two minutes," Sherlock said, undaunted.

Now Molly did pull away. "I'm not getting into a cab and then on an airplane right after..." Molly flapped her hands to illustrate her point. "I know _you_ don't care, but it's so, so …"

"Obvious?" Sherlock filled in, beyond amused at Molly's quick nod. "We're going away on our Sex Holiday, Molly. It should be painfully obvious to everyone that we're doing _that_." He mimicked Molly's hand flaps to perfection. "Even given the general level of incompetence in the world when it comes to basic observation."

"It's our honeymoon," Molly corrected with a huff, "not a Sex Holiday. Honestly, Sherlock. Please tell me you haven't been calling it that in front of everyone. Mycroft is bad enough."

Sherlock slid one hand to the small of her back, grasping her other and holding it out as he led her in a tight circle for the first few steps of their wedding waltz. His lips curved in a purely evil smirk. "You know Mycroft likes to keep updated on my status," he said.

"Mycroft does not need to be updated on our sex life, Sherlock," Molly said, going for stern but falling short. Sherlock's smirk had that affect on her. "Stop trying to make him jealous."

"He should be jealous," Sherlock said, mutinous and smug at the same time. "I got the best wife, obviously."

Molly turned fetchingly pink. A second later, the color faded as something occurred to her. "I notice you didn't deny that bit about telling everybody we're going on a Sex Holiday."

"I hope you know," Sherlock said, pleased as punch that she'd noticed, despite the fact that it meant he was in trouble. "I don't count you among the unobservant masses."

Molly turned that interesting shade of pink again, and Sherlock smiled down at her indulgently. Eliciting that exact color from her fair skin was his favorite pastime. They'd stopped dancing, but Sherlock continued to sway them gently from side to side, in time with the tune playing in his head.

"Oh God," Molly sputtered suddenly. "You sent that text to everyone in your contact list, didn't you?"

"I love you, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said sincerely, swooping down to kiss her. "We still have forty-six minutes, you know," he said against her lips. Without waiting for an answer, he started walking them back towards the bedroom (as there was no surface in the living room that was not currently covered with gifts).

"Sherlock, we are going to be on holiday for a week." Despite her protests, Molly's feet were happy to carry her along with him.

"Two weeks. I changed our reservation and fixed it with your boss."

Molly stopped dead, gaping at him in shock, a few – he hoped – happy tears pricking the corners of her eyes. "Oh. I thought we decided you'd get bored if we were gone that long."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If I get bored, I'll find a case."

"No cases, Sherlock, you promised," Molly said with a very attractive pout.

Sherlock took her hands in his and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, smoldering up at her through half-lidded eyes. "I also told Mycroft we wouldn't be leaving our suite, but I think I can find plenty of cases in there to keep me occupied."

Molly lifted one eyebrow as she studied him. "Oh?" she said, unable to keep a slight edge of humor from leaking into the word. "Like what, do you think?"

"The Case of Cataloging Molly's Erogenous Zones," Sherlock said, eyes twinkling as he tugged her by their still joined hands towards the bedroom door. Molly flushed for a third time, turning a slightly darker pink this time, which was definitely a close second on the list of Sherlock's favorites. "The Case of the Moving Furniture." Sherlock leered, making Molly giggle. "The Case of Molly's Missing Knickers – solved that one by the way; they landed on top of the wardrobe."

The door to the bedroom shut behind them.

…

Violet Holmes wasn't much for texting, but just once, she decided to make an exception for her son, knowing he wouldn't be answering any calls for a while.

 _Well done, my boy_.


End file.
